


Conterintuitive Floor Plans

by cynthia_arrow (thesilverarrow)



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Always Female Gerard, F/M, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 00:30:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1490071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverarrow/pseuds/cynthia_arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gee's not exactly sure how she's come to be locked in a storage room with the ridiculous little dark-haired supposedly male creature in girl jeans who sings for Panic! at the Disco. It might have something to do with her being a wee bit sauced. Yep. That's probably it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conterintuitive Floor Plans

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted to livejournal many, many moons ago. I'm simply archiving it here.
> 
> Original note: I get my timelines screwed up sometimes and don't check things before I write, and here I definitely did, re: Gerard's sobriety and when Panic might've been on tour with My Chem. So let's just say that girl!Gee gets on the wagon a bit later than Gerard actually did. But the fucked-upedness here for Gee is pretty low level, I promise. It just provides some halfway serious undertones (self-esteem related) to a largely comedic kind of story.

Gee's not exactly sure how she's come to be locked in a storage room with the ridiculous little dark-haired supposedly male creature in girl jeans who sings for Panic! at the Disco. It might have something to do with her being a wee bit sauced. Yep. That's probably it. But she figures it'll all work out. These things always do, right? The venue's not that fucking big, and she's on in…an hour and fifteen minutes? Plenty of time for Brian to send in the cavalry. It has to be okay.  
  
Has to, right?   
  
Fuck, does she wish she had more vodka. Or her cell phone. Something other than a piece of paper shoved under the door that says,  _Help me, I'm stuck_.  
  
The guy, Brendon Somethingorother, all wide brown eyes and sinful lips and even more sinful compact little body—not that Gee's looking; shit, he's wearing way more ruffles and lace than she'd ever let near her own chest, and rumor is he's as flaming as the even skinnier one who plays guitar—has already been on tonight. He smells like it anyway: hot lights on someone male. Just on the edge between pleasant musk and a B.O. smell. Mostly good, though.   
  
He's sitting on the floor in a wide space between shelving units, his legs stretched out in front of him on the beige carpet. As she peers down at him, she wonders how he got to be here. So, being Gee Way, she asks—of course, only after she throws the requisite minor and mostly ironic tantrum about counterintuitive floor plans and invisible door locks and  _couldn't you warn me, asshole?_  
  
"I didn't know I was locked in," he says with a frown. Except he's smiling around it, staring at her like…  
  
 _Fuck_ , she thinks. Tiny ridiculous Brendon is a fan. How did she not know this already?  
  
But right now, he's really not that ridiculous. And she's pretty sure he's not going to be irritating about it or anything. He just waits for her to sit down, and after a respectable silence says:  
  
"I'm excited about your set later. Provided we, you know, get rescued."  
  
"Fuck, I would've thought you'd be bored with it by now."  
  
His nose wrinkles when he frowns (adorably), incredulous in a way that feels almost like an admonition.   
  
He says, "Do  _you_  get bored listening to music you love?"  
  
"Uh…."  
  
He huffs out a bit of nervous laughter, then he says with a smile, "It's just nice to be out of your own head for a while, you know?"  
  
She does, actually. But that does not at all explain the storage room.  
  
"But that does not at all explain the storage room," she says. "Why you're locked in."  
  
"I told you I didn’t know I was locked in."  
  
She raises an eyebrow, and when he comically raises one in return, she sits herself down beside him—carefully so as not to let her spacey little head smack back against the wall. It's not that fucking warm back here, but now Gee's all warm and maybe even a little twitchy. He's radiating just as much heat as energy, and it's a little hard to endure. Or maybe sort of pleasantly hard.   
  
Fuck, she thinks. Pleasantly hard. Fuck.  
  
Then he says, "It's hard."  
  
She nearly coughs herself to death while she dials her brain back to something that might actually leave its comfy gutter home every so often.  
  
"Hard?" she says. "Oh, the storage closet? Hard to explain?"  
  
"No. No, I mean, everything's hard. It's all… I don't know. It's not something I can…  
  
She absolutely can't help the Tarantino quote that comes out of her mouth: "English—do you speak it?"  
  
He frowns, this time in a way that tears at her gut. Fuck, fuck. No more of that. The world cannot handle a pouty face on this one. Hell, Gee can't handle a pouty face on anybody, but those lips and those wicked expressive brown eyes are just…   
  
So she leans her head on his shoulder and gives him her best I-really-do-want-to-save-the-world-motherfucker smile.   
  
"C'mon," she says. "You can tell me. I bet I've been there."  
  
"Well… Yeah, I guess you of all people."  
  
"Oh."  
  
She turns dramatically and lays her hand on his knee like she's being ridiculous, which she is, but a small part of her does kind of light up at being forced to remember that he's a kindred spirit, that he is what she is—and that  _she_  is what she is.   
  
"Oh," she repeats, now that she's looking him in the eyes. "It's Important Lead Singer Business."  
  
"I'm not important," he says glumly.  
  
"Oh, Jesus," she murmurs, her head rolling on her neck. "Fucking stop  _that_."  
  
"Geraldine…"  
  
"Stop that, too. Only my brother calls me that. I'm Gee."  
  
"Okay," he says, then he closes his mouth and stares at the floor.  
  
After a moment, he opens his mouth like he's going to finally say what he means, but then he closes it again. And maybe moves his stare to how her hand is on his knee. She's contemplating taking it off—not that she wants to, but she thinks she should—but it's already there, and it would be awkward to move it now. Oh, well; fuck it.   
  
She takes deep breath, focused back on the task at hand. Well, not literally. Anyway, she was about to try to reassure the tiny dear, which she's apparently not going to be that dazzling at tonight.   
  
More sardonically then she means to, she says, "I bet I can sum it up for you. It's too much. Too many people. Too much energy. It's exhausting. It's overwhelming. Sometimes you don't want to do it at all. Sometimes you want to do it so much it hurts. Am I close?"  
  
He nods. "So…?"  
  
"Does it get any easier? Nope. More familiar, though. And, yeah, it  _will_  turn you into a crazy person."  
  
"I don't think you're crazy."  
  
She shakes her head at him. "Anyway, you get to choose your crazy, if you're strong enough. You got balls?"  
  
He finally smiles—that big, blinding, stupid smile, but it's quickly tamped down with something sly and knowing. Gee's stomach flips over. Damn vodka. Damn boys. Damn storage room. What the fuck is she doing here, anyway?   
  
He giggles darkly. "If I don't, Ryan's got enough for both of us."  
  
"So it's like that?" she says, knocking her shoulder against his, waggling her eyebrows. "How disappointing."  
  
His face goes pink. "No, it's not-- I mean, Ryan is, but. Fuck," he huffs. His arms maybe flail a little. "Being gay is fine," he says seriously, "but I'm not gay. No. Not… _anything_  with Ryan. Despite what it looks like on stage."  
  
She's pretty sure she owes Ray a twenty now. Oh well, what he doesn't know…   
  
She nods and leans her head back against the wall. He surprises her then by leaning into her a little, now casually conversational, like something in him is loosening up.   
  
He says, "So, what kind of crazy did you pick?"  
  
She snorts. "I don't know. Vampires and zombies and shit." She waves her hand vaguely, smiling.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
He nods.  
  
She shrugs. "I don't know. Fuck, do you always ask such nosy questions?"  
  
At that, he's the one to snort, and it sounds suspiciously like he's halfway mocking hers.   
  
"Oh my God, seriously?" he says. "You were enquiring into my sex life a minute ago."  
  
She giggles—giggles, goddammit—and says, "Yeah."   
  
Now that's she's looking at him properly, seduced into doing it by his baby sarcasm and his fucking doe eyes, she's kind of transfixed. Sure, he looks a little figuratively small and puny right now—and doesn't she know that feeling, especially sometimes after a show—but he also looks like the type of guy who's rarely this puny about anything. She's seen him around. Despite his immaturity and naiveté, he's a cheerful and annoyingly confident son of a bitch. Of course, he's also flirts with whatever moves—in an endearing way, not in a lecherous way, but still.   
  
But he doesn't flirt with her, or at least he's not doing it right now, not exactly. She finds that both liberating and…distracting.  
  
"They're probably worried about you," he says.  
  
"They're always worried about me." She hastily adds, rolling her eyes, "Because I do fucking wacky things"—here, she waves jazz hands at him—"like get locked in closets with strangers."  
  
"I'm not a stranger. I'm Brendon."  
  
"I know who you are. But we don't…" Hang out? Talk? Have anything in common? "Look, I don't know you."  
  
"You could."  
  
Oh. Well.  
  
This would be where, if he were anybody else, she would've told him to shut the fuck up because it would've been a line. Or else she would've shut him up herself because she would've had him on his back, her tongue in his mouth, her hand working down into his pants. Anything not to go three rounds of thoughts and feelings and bullshit people don't really mean, not in this industry. But he's still looking at her earnestly. Fuck, he's almost as bad as Frank is when he's trying to be serious. Except Frank normally sucks at that, unless it's actually something serious. This kid is a pro. She wonders if it's possible he's kind of working her. Maybe unconsciously, or playfully or something? Not that she thinks he's screwing with her, just that there's more to him than having enormous brown eyes and looking way too young to be here.   
  
She's pretty sure it wasn't a line, and, anyway, he's not making a move, but then again he's still letting his eyes roam over her face.   
  
"So, Brendon, new friend of mine," she says, "is there a reason you keep staring at me?"  
  
He's suddenly about ten shades of scarlet, and it's cute.   
  
"Sorry. It's just… Well, you look different on stage."  
  
Ah. There's always that.  
  
With the makeup and costume and everything, she makes a convincing picture, especially from far away. She's suddenly conscious of what he might be seeing up close; even in the light of these dim incandescent bulbs, she must look… She doesn't even know. She doesn't look in mirrors much, except when she's going out to be Gee Way, motherfucking rock star. And she's nowhere near that now, despite the fact that, tonight, stage Gee is sloppily spilling over into her everyday personality in ways she always promised herself it wouldn't.   
  
She snorts, that old reflex of insecurity her grandmother never did quite convince her to turn loose of.  
  
"Yep," she says. "What you see is what you get, babe."  
  
"Well, I like what I see," he says matter-of-factly.  
  
And now she's the one trying to suppress a blush. It helps that it's warring with a good deal of confusion, which must be showing on her face for all his eyes narrow. Nervous, but he's determined to see whatever this is through. She has to admire that. Maybe he does have balls after all.  
  
He says, "I mean, the way you are on stage… You're hot, man. You've gotta know that. Alive, you know? But I think- I think you're way cooler, and way prettier, close up. In person."  
  
This? Is precisely a moment Gee wishes she had more fucking alcohol. She kind of wants to punch him, but she feels a little queasy. She can remember being that young, right? Which means he's probably serious as a fucking heart attack. Delusional, but sincere.  
  
"Sorry," he mutters.  
  
"Don't be sorry," she mumbles. "You're just being…"  
  
"Too straightforward?" he says with a tense laugh. "My cardinal sin."  
  
"I think it's nice."  
  
He rolls his eyes.   
  
"No," she says. "Fuck you. It's nice. You're nice."  
  
"I'm not some dumb kid," he mumbles.  
  
"Not what I meant. Being nice isn't the same as being dumb. And, besides, you'll probably still be this way when you're sixty."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"I don't."  
  
She really doesn't. She doesn't even know who she'll be when she's sixty. Gee who saves the world one tortured soul at a time? Gee who knocks the wind out of people with her voice and her don't-fuck-with-me-unless-you-can-handle-me stage persona? Gee who's fairly useless at almost everything except shitty comic book drawings? Gee who gets drunk and ends up accidentally—and isn't it always an accident?—locked away somewhere with...?  
  
"So I'm not dumb, but I am 19," he says.  
  
"Okay," she says evenly. What she means: Fuck. A decade. A whole entire decade.   
  
"Just, you know, if you wanted to use that as an excuse for not…"  
  
"Excuse?"  
  
This time he doesn't blush, but he still makes a sheepish face, one he tries to overcome with a playful, gently mocking smile. "Your hands is, um, halfway up my thigh."  
  
Which was not something she was entirely aware of. Wow.  
  
"Sorry," she says. Not that she takes the hand back.  
  
Maybe it's because she doesn't that he fixes her with his eyes and says with a sly, penetrating grin, "Don't be sorry unless you are."  
  
"And you," she says—too loudly, but she needs something to jolt her back to reality, especially since her hand still isn't moving, is even now tightening its grip, maybe creeping up a little as it does. "You don't be 19, Brendon of Panic exclamation point at the motherfucking Disco. Don't be fucking 19. Because I'm not drunk enough for booze to be the excuse."  
  
"For what?"  
  
"For what?" she huffs, giggling. "For whatever it is you've got planned."  
  
"Planned?" He frowns at her, eyes going wide. "You think I lured you here and trapped you in this storage room to…?"  
  
He stops when she leans her head against his shoulder, clutching him and laughing.   
  
"No, fucktard. I mean whatever your serious eyes and the bulge in your skinny jeans are planning."  
  
"Uh," he says, and that's all he can manage. When she pulls back to take a peek at his expression, she learns that it's apparently possible for him to turn even redder than he did before.  
  
And her, too, of course. Fuck her rambling mouth.  
  
Oh, yeah. Fuck her mouth.   
  
Shit.  
  
"Do you want me?" she asks. Five minutes ago it would've been an idle question, about reaction and curiosity. Now it's so, so serious.  
  
He sighs out a breath. "Gee…" His whole face somehow goes soft, enough that it makes her feel a little flushed, actually.  
  
But she soldiers on. Raising an eyebrow, she says, "Were you planning on kissing me?"  
  
"I…" God, what an adorable confused face. "You want…?"  
  
"No, in point of fact," she says with an overdramatic sigh, but she's grinning. "No, of course not. I do not want to be stuck in a storage room with a fucking insanely hot guy wearing lace and silk flowers and more eyeliner than me, but such is my tragedy. Oh, woe is me. Woe is fucking me. It's such a tragically awful life singing on stage for thousands of—"  
  
Then just like that, he's half in her lap and his full, thick lips are covering hers.   
  
It's kind of awkward at first—not that he doesn't know what to do, but that they don't know how to do this together, and because he's sort of just trying to desperately shut her up. But she sighs into it anyway, sure that just trying to stay fucking calm is the best thing possible. Indeed, once they stop trying so damn hard, it's kind of perfect—in a sloppy, reckless sort of way, but she doesn't mind. There's an odd lack of self-consciousness to what he's doing, which both pleases her and weirds her out a little. She realizes it's probably because he's not done a shit-ton of this before. Fuck, maybe he hasn't. Didn't she hear that one of them grew up Mormon?   
  
She can remember a time when people's assumptions about her—things she didn't bother to correct—didn't quite match up to reality. Even now, they mostly don't. So she wonders what she would want out of this same scenario? Surely not fucking overanalyzing. Live life and have fun and rock and roll and all that shit. So she tightens her grip on his waist and lets herself be kissed, kisses back like there's nothing else she'd rather be doing. Which is mostly true. To hell with angry Brians and doors that accidentally lock. This is nice, way fucking nicer than drifting around backstage, playing the same bullshit games with techs and venue guys. Because somehow this is not exactly that, even if it happened even fucking faster than these hookups usually do.  
  
But of course, there  _is_  something she'd kind of rather be doing—okay,  _really_  rather be doing—and it's almost impossible not to crave it when she makes the mistake of pulling him down on top of her, her back to the coarse, thin carpet and the ridge of his cock digging into her hip bone. He's not trying to grind against her or anything, but she can feel it, and she wants it.   
  
"God," she gasps as she pulls out of a kiss.   
  
"Yeah," he mumbles, and his face falls against her neck.  
  
"Shit. Fuck, I don't have any condoms. You don't…?"   
  
She really hopes he does, but he doesn't say. He just pushes himself up a little, to take some of his weight off her, not that she needs that. It's really fucking nice being pinned underneath him. He's heavier than he looks; solid.  
  
"That's okay," he says, breathless. "It's fine."   
  
His cheeks are flushed, shiny, and his red mouth hangs open a little as he breathes fast. When he finally closes his mouth, it sets the rest of his face in a serious line that instantly makes her nervous.  
  
"Brendon?"  
  
He mumbles, "We probably shouldn't anyway." He takes a deep breath then spits his words come out in a rush. "I mean, because I haven't ever."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Yeah. So I…don't think I want to? Yet."  
  
"No, that's cool," she says.   
  
But it's really so not cool, at least on an immediate level, here with her and the 19 year old she's either corrupting or making insanely uncomfortable. She has the sudden urge to shove him off her—which she works hard to fight back against. Though part of him looks just a little freaked, probably from having told her something like that, the rest of him seems oddly calm, like he knows exactly what he's doing, especially where he wants to draw the line. So she relaxes under him, strokes a hand up and down his arm. It really is okay. Kind of frustrating, but okay.  
  
"I mean," he adds, "not that I wouldn't want to with you, but…"  
  
"I get it."  
  
"Fuck. I know I seem like an asshole now, it's just—"  
  
"No," she says, digging her fingernails into his bicep. Smiling. "Okay, so you seem a little like a tease, but I can deal. I can keep my hands to myself. I'll take it out on Frank later on stage. He'll be very pleased, might even send you a fruit basket."  
  
He snorts and smiles a little, sitting there on his heels and looking down at her. After a minute of intense contemplation of Gee's face, which kind of freaks her the fuck out, he says evenly:  
  
"You don't have to keep your hands, like, completely to yourself."  
  
"No?"  
  
"Not if you don't want to. Except…" He sighs at himself and rolls his eyes.  
  
Smirking playfully, she says, "Come on out with it, Cardinal Sin."  
  
He snorts out a laugh, then he says matter-of-factly: "I don't want to do, like, nothing. But I just can't reciprocate very well."  
  
"Have you ever, with anybody?"  
  
He nods. "Yeah. Just hands, though."  
  
"Just your hands, or just other people's hands on you?"  
  
"Both."  
  
"Well, hands are good," she says. She's already thinking about those fingers of his, so weirdly tentative and sure at the same time on her jaw, how they might be just the same way on other parts of her. But without much contemplation or deliberation, she says, "I like hands, but, hey, why don't you let me blow you instead?"  
  
He reacts with a cough. A cough and further blushing, despite his best efforts to give her an interested smile.  
  
She adds, "Unless you're waiting on that, too. Which is cool. Crazy and all—hey, fuck, maybe that's your brand of crazy, you know?" she says, nudging him playfully. "But it's admirable, babe, believe me."  
  
"No," he says, maybe too emphatically, because he lets out a deep breath and says, more calmly, "No. Totally not waiting for that." Then he frowns—goddamn terrible frown;  _Jesus_ —and adds, "But I can't…you know, in return."  
  
"Stop worrying about that," she says. She finally pulls herself up so she can give him a quick peck on the mouth. "I don't care." She kisses him on the mouth again and then talks low in his ear: "Stick to the easy question: do you want me to put my mouth on you?"  
  
When she slips her hand down between them to cup him through his painted on jeans, he decides in a hurry that, yes, he would. Definitely.  
  
She makes him stand up. She'd rather him be on his back, so if his legs don't cooperate the way he wants them to, it'll be fine. But the floor is… Well, it's hard and scratchy and kind of gross. Plus, it's way more fun—and way easier—to get him out of his pants and underwear when he's standing.  
  
He's still sweaty, hot and sticky to the touch now, so his briefs drag a little, but he smells good, really good. He whimpers a little as she strips everything down, revealing a short, thick cock, dark and shining at the tip. Quickly, she sucks in the head, steadying his hips with her hands as she does, and that's when he stops whimpering and starts groaning.   
  
After she gives his slit some attention with her tongue and takes him almost all the way in a couple of times, she pulls off for a second, taking him in hand and stroking him slowly as she talks, murmuring the words calmly into the warm, soft place at the join of his thigh.   
  
"Something to know: you should always warn a girl before you come, in case she doesn't swallow, or, you know, want it in her mouth at all. Some girls don't, and you can probably understand why. But I don't mind swallowing. I like doing this, and I'm not fragile. So just…" She grins against his skin. "… enjoy yourself."  
  
When she looks up again, gives him that same smile, she sees that his eyes are wide, pupils blown from arousal and some solemn look on his face from trying to concentrate on her words. As soon as she takes him in again, though, his eyes snap shut and he's already grabbing her by the hair. His hips shift a little toward her face, but he's clearly doing his best to be careful, polite. She figures she can get him past polite pretty fast, if she tries hard enough.  
  
By the time her mouth is meeting the top of her fist, he's actively wrapping his fingers into her hair and pulling, just hard enough to seem like he's letting go a little but not too hard. She considers forcing his hips into a rhythm, but ultimately she decides it really is easier if he's not fucking her mouth like that. Especially not before a show. And, besides, maybe this is how he is, how he likes it: her head bobbing, her neck doing most of the work, letting her work him over but pulling her into it with his hands in her hair. Neither one in complete control, neither one losing control.  
  
In contrast to the easy sway of his hips, his mouth is babbling, broken stream of affirmation and exclamation, hushed tones of want and thanks and please, more—all without using those words. Mostly, it's  _God_  and  _shit_  and  _Gee_. When she finally hears  _fuck, oh God_ , and he finally gives a shallow thrust with his hips, she hasn't even been at it long enough to make her jaw ache. She sucks harder and wetter and lets him push as deep as he wants. Soon, he can't stop thrusting or whimpering and softly moaning, and then he stutters out,  _I'm gonna_ , followed by a sharp breath in. His fist in her hair stills, holding her there as he gives a shallow thrust and comes with a groan.   
  
After she swallows, she rests her forehead against his hip, and she smiles to feel how shaky he is. His hands work at her scalp lazily, oddly like thank you, but the kind that doesn't make her feel shitty about it.  
  
While she gets to her feet, she watches him dazedly pull up his pants again, shaking his head at her with this wild, laughing look in his eyes.   
  
"Fuck," he says. Pants out a laugh and smiles. It's a smile she could too easily become absolutely addicted to.  
  
"So…?"  
  
"Jesus, that was…"  
  
She waves her hand and leans in, kissing him fast and hard on the lips. She whispers into them, "I'm glad it was good for you."  
  
Suddenly, his arms wrap around her and he kind of snuggles her close. She can feel his pulse and his hands fidgeting; despite being so sated, he's turning awkward and nervous again.  
  
He mumbles, "I wish I knew how to make you feel that good, too."  
  
If it was a line, a polite fiction about reciprocation nobody expects to actually happen, she'd let it go. She never expects to get anything out of this other than some vague satisfaction at having a bit of control of something for a while. But he actually seems sincere, which makes her equal parts anxious and kind of excited.   
  
Or more excited, that is. Goddamn. Fuck, does he make her want—to try to get, not just to give.  
  
She tries to pitch the words with just the right tone, inviting but not pushing.   
  
"You know there's only one way to learn, right?"  
  
"Wouldn't be very good."   
  
Once again, not a line. He's genuinely disappointed with himself, and that just won't fucking do.  
  
"Fuck that," she says. "How do you know if you don't try?"  
  
He frowns at her skeptically.  
  
"It rarely ever makes me come, anyway," she adds, "no matter how good somebody is at it. But the point is, it still feels good regardless. I bet you'd feel really nice."   
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Babe, if nobody's told you yet, you're absolutely adorable, and your lips are just…" She grins and raises her eyebrows at him. Unsurprisingly, he blushes again, but he also looks kind of pleased, proud.   
  
"Okay," he says with a small nod.  
  
She smirks at him a little. "Okay, what? You agree with me that you're sex in gender-challenged jeans?"  
  
He laughs, despite trying to frown at her words. "No. I mean: okay, I'll try it. But only if- if you tell me what to do."  
  
She nods. "Part of learning. Part of good sex. That and asking for what you want."  
  
"And you want…this?"  
  
She nods and waits for a move that doesn't come.  
  
He really doesn't get it. That might be the most fucking attractive thing about him, and the most frustrating. On stage, anywhere with crowds around, he seems to know how he shines—almost too bright to endure it, honestly. But here, where it's quiet, where he's maybe not that guy, he doesn't seem to know. She kind of wants to shake him and tell him he really is something fucking special, on stage and off. He has to be; he can only do what he does because it's always in him. It's in him even if he doesn't shine all the goddamn time, maybe especially when he doesn't. This soft glow is good, too. Warm like a lamp, or maybe cool the moon.   
  
And now, Jesus Christ, he's got her thinking in metaphor. Fuck. He's got her thinking too much, period.  
  
So she musters all her stage Gee bravado—which is okay, just this once, she thinks; that Gee must be part of her somehow, right?  
  
"Brendon, new friend of mine," she says in his ear. "I enjoy giving blow jobs, especially to enthusiastic recipients, so now I'm all wet and horny. I need. And I like having a guy's mouth between my legs. So I want. Do you, though?" She pulls back to look at him. "Honestly? Speak now or forever hold your peace and make Frank a very happy rhythm guitarist."  
  
But he's already nodding, his eyes going darker again, that same mix of want and total concentration. This will work out, she thinks. Things always do. It might not go spectacularly, but probably that would be utterly boring anyway.   
  
"Well, all right then," she says, kissing him one last time before she guides his hands to her fly.  
  
Surely there's a least a half hour before Brian finds them. One can learn a lot of helpful things in half an hour. 


End file.
